Sláinte
by MiggglyPuff
Summary: It's not the first time someone has been sent to kill him. Won't be the last, either. However, it is the first time the assassin made him dinner. - A Soulmates/Inkmates AU!


In this world, there are soulmates. People who you are destined to be with, a perfect match and a perfect heart. Upon reaching prepubescence, words will begin to slowly rise from beneath your skin, dark and blurred like a tattoo, slowly sharpening over the course of several weeks until the words are clear. The first words your soulmate will speak to you, carved into your skin for eternity. There are cases where your words may not be clear; reports of hand gestures to communicate sign language, raised bumps like small moles for the blind to read and know, foreign languages, the occasional bare flesh until your soulmate is born and their words set into your skin, should there be a large enough age difference. Words have been known to fade and vanish, the flame of life snuffed too soon before a meeting.

* * *

He knows there is someone in his flat the moment he opens the door. His security system is still on, meaning whoever entered was clever enough to disable and arm it again. It also means he has to put in his safe code to prevent his dozen or so armed and rather eager security guards from bursting in and upsetting the whole place, which happened at the _last_ place he stayed and he's really not eager to sleep among the wreckage they would cause again. And... if he's entirely honest with himself, it's been a _very_ boring day and he's had a _very_ bad week and it makes it easy for the dangerous and dark slither of impulsive desire to uncoil from where he squished it and wrap into his head and around his lungs. How _exciting_ it would be, to pretend he doesn't know. Jim's small and thin and lean and fast and _mean_ and he knows how to hold his own in a fight, he did for years before this and he expects to do it for years to come, when he wants to. He doesn't need to get his hands dirty anymore, he's moved out of that pond and eats the sharks that roam the oceans now.

But _god_...

The person in his flat doesn't know the kind of week he's had. They don't know about the stiletto knife strapped to his ankle, or it's match in his inner jacket pocket, or the litter of guns and knives he has stashed in every room. So he steps into the hallway and turns to the electronic panel by the door and presses in his code to disarm the system, and Jim discovers exactly what the person in his flat _does_ know. They know how to be very, very quiet. He catches the movement in his peripheral vision, twisting just quick enough for the knife to embed itself an inch deep in the plaster of the wall, shooting his elbow back to slam into his assailant's throat. His elbow slams into chest muscle instead _(miscalculated their height based off the angle from the knife)_ and there is a faint grunt that gives him satisfaction anyway, even as the man grips him by the scruff of his neck, large calloused fingers digging into the nerves and making imprints of stars dance behind his eyelids as Jim is slammed face-first into the wall. His left arm is jerked behind him, thin wrist in an iron grasp that grinds bone and flesh together and makes him wince, a knee pushed into the back of his thigh against a pressure point that makes his foot feel numb. _Oh feckin' hell, you've messed up boy-o._

He _has_ messed up, he expected the same tier of killer that he's been dealing with for a while now, but apparently he's stepped onto someone's radar because this guy is _good_, professional military good. There's a shimmer of pride and glee that he pissed off someone big, but it's blown out of his chest with a painful gasp of air as his left arm is wrenched far behind his back, his own knuckles brushing against the silk of his right shoulder, the man holding his wrist putting his weight behind the movement and grinding his arm against his back. The grip on his neck is released, _he's goin' for de knife to slit yisser throat, Jimmy!_ and Jim takes advantage of his thin and bony frame and squirms, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and wrist as he flails his body the best he can to dislodge his attacker. Whoever gets the knife first wins.

"Hold still, you little fuckin' cocksucker!" The hand that was around his neck balls into a fist and slams into his right kidney, making him buckle.

He registers the words and ignores the flare of burning warmth from his left wrist, part pain from the grasp and partly from the ink buried beneath his sleeve, hidden by make-up. He registers the words and relives every moment of pain, every kick and slap and punch and every hand that touched him, every sneer and remark and lecherous look that came from that damned phrase embedded in his skin. A lifetime of misery and agony, and he throws it back with as much vitriol as he can muster into words. "Fat _feckin' _chance, ye thick ape!" It comes out in an accent thick and loose from anger, and he burned that much brighter at the indignation that his controlled tone slipped back to a childhood brogue. There is a moment's pause, a single second of hesitation that Jim takes advantage of, kicking his leg back and slamming the heel of his foot into the intruder's calf, making him curse.

Jim is grabbed and whipped around quick and he's a nasty little fucker in a fight, and he grabs and rips and snaps his teeth, kicks and swings. Whoever his assailant is, he's a mean fucker too and weighs a good six or seven stone on him, muscled and tall and he gives no quarter as he slams Jim back against the wall, the sharp edge of the knife cold against the skin of his neck and hands pinned above him on the wall. "_Feckin'_ do it then, _moron!_" He spits the words, snarling and tugging at the hand holding his wrist, but he's held tight and stuck, and he's furious at the waiting game now.

The knife edge is slanted a degree, drawing a thin line of red that starts to well up into beads. There's a sharp, stinging pain that flares from the wound, radiating out, and the knife is withdrawn. The killer tugs off his dark mask, knife still clutched in hand, and- _oh feck he's pretty_. Shining blue eyes, a mess of blonde hair, a crooked grin and a tapered scar splitting his eyebrow and running down his eye and to his cheek. _Oh feck he's_ _**really**_ _pretty._ And he's cocky, because his crooked grin turns into a smirk like he can read what Jim's thinking, and his voice is deep and low like a big cat's purr, and Jim concedes that he'll leave the man's face untouched when he guts him later. "We should grab dinner."

"Oh, you can just fuck right off to hell you son of a bitch." His heart is beating rabbit quick in his chest and he has to concentrate not to make a fool of himself any further, enunciating his words carefully. "Kill me or let me the fuck go so I can kill you."

The smirk only widens at his threat, and the man leans in low enough that he can smell the aftershave, see the stubble growing in, and then the bastard dips down and _licks_ him, tongue lathing a broad stripe along the red line cut into his skin. He yelps, yelling at himself in his head for the ungodly noise that came from his mouth, but he doesn't have to worry about it for long because then the blonde is _kissing_ him, and he tastes like war and violence and old whiskey and iron-rich blood, smells like gunpowder and metal and smoke and gun oil, and he loses himself for a moment before the man pulls back. Jim instinctively leans forward, but man places a large hand on his chest and gives him a cheeky smile, pushing him back. "Same time next week? I'll cook." And then he steps back _(where's the knife?)_ and turns towards his front door and Jim goes to pull his arms down, ready to- ah _fuck_. Cocky bastard pinned him to the wall by his shirt sleeves when he was distracted with the _(rather good)_ kiss. A string of curses, rough and Gaelic and full of his Irish brogue follow the man as he heads out the door.

* * *

The flat's burned, there's no telling how the supposed-to-be-assassin found the address, and Jim would never stay at a place that's compromised. It's easy to send one of the dogs begging for his attention to the flat, 'a promotion' Jim croons, 'you've just been _so_ good lately, you deserve it, darling!'. The darling in question has been stealing from him for weeks, which is a ridiculous notion. You can't embezzle from a man who launders money for governments, silly fool. It's easy to set him up in the flat and then rig a gas leak. There was nothing there he cared about anyhow, things are things and he can own whatever things he desires. It still pisses him off that his _feckin'_ inkmate made him burn the flat, because even if he can own the world, _no one_ takes his things away.

He's pissed all week, and he throws it into his work. More people lose their lives at his hands, his beck and call, than in even his busiest month before this. He's tetchy, a wrong look or even just someone standing near him sets him off. One of the secretaries at one of his fronts got a new perfume, and he had her fingers broken. It doesn't help that his skin burns, boils under the makeup and itches, he can't sleep (even less than before) and the only thing that relieves his anger is the fact that his mate must feel the same burning itch, the thread that tires them together growing tight and taunt and threatening them with their lack of togetherness. It is as equally a curse as it is a gift, the inkmates, soulmates. There is an unnatural pull to be close to the other person while the bond sets and there is an even more unnatural draw towards the other person. Enemies will find themselves growing attached, strangers will find their other more attractive, more desirable. Fighting such a draw is difficult, Jim believes the only reason his damned killer hasn't come to him, drawn by their burning ink, is the fact that they cannot find him. And there is no way in hell Jim is looking for the other man, it didn't matter how feckin' _pretty_ he was, he was a dead man walking. His would-have-been killer would know this, unless the fool is stupid enough to think that Moriarty would fall victim to a crooked smile and a nice scar.

Which is why it made no sense at all when he opened the door to his new flat and smelled food cooking. His first thought, stupid as it is, is that he's entered the wrong flat. Which is impossible, he's got the penthouse suite and the lift opens up into a short hallway and there is only his door, so unless he's in the wrong building as well, he's in the right place. His second thought is not a thought at all, it is an emotion, and it is anger. Hot and bright and crisp and clear, and he's not a fool this time. He hears the voice, he _recognizes_ the voice, the deep and low tone singing along to Jim's collection of records, old slow songs from the 50's, and then he's incensed that the bastard rooted through his things and found his music and then got his big, grubby, stupid soldier paws on his records and then had the audacity to play them on his fancy set up. And how _dare_ he sound good. And Jim is not stupid this time. He has his gun, a neat little G23, and he has no hesitation to blast the motherfucker back into the aether, except he rounds the corner of the hallway into the open space of the kitchen and, god damn him, he _freezes._

There's a soldier in his kitchen, _his_ soldier, his traitorous mind whispers, and damn him if his soldier isn't wearing expertly fitted black trousers, a pressed white shirt with the first few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off a myriad of scars and tattoos. And an apron, he's got a _feckin'_ apron, and Jim doesn't even own an a apron, which means the damned thing is his and he _brought it with him!_ His soldier lifts his head from where he was looking down, making a feckin' _salad_, and when he turns and gives Jim that damned crooked grin Jim can see that the apron is so obviously the soldiers and so obviously well-used, off white and stained, a fancy font saying 'Fuck The Cook' on it.

And what pisses him off even more is the way his soldier nods at the gun in his hand, Jim's aim steady and unwavering still, and then has the damned audacity to smile and wink.

"If ya don't mind waitin' til I get the chicken out of the oven, tastes better when it's not burnt." And the cocky bastard is turning around, showing Jim his back like he thinks he's safe, and pulling the chicken out of the oven, and damned if it doesn't smell good.

_Who sent you,_ Jim goes to ask. "What'd you make?" He says. Somehow the words got lost between his brain and mouth.

"Chicken- baked with roasted sweet balsamic tomatoes, garlic butter and provolone. Rice and side salad to accompany, almond peach galette for dessert." He's pulled the tray out of the oven, setting on the stovetop, plating food for two. Like he expects to live long enough to eat it. "You've gotta eat better, had to make a grocery run just for this. Cleaned out your fridge, by the way. Unless you were attached to moldy Thai."

"I was, actually." When did he have Thai? He didn't think it was after moving in here, so how long had that been sitting there? Last time he stayed here had been... What, three months ago? Maybe he _did_ need to eat better.

The corner of his soldier's mouth turns up and he's shedding the oven mitts. "Mm, next time I'll bring Thai and we can work on replacing your fuzzy pet then, darlin'."

The grip on the gun tightens. His arm is getting tired, the G23 is light but he doesn't shoot as much as he should. It's not nearly as fun as getting hands-on. "What makes you think there's a next time, _darling._" He snarls the word.

"Haven't shot me yet." Soldier gives a 'I'm-sorry-not-really-sorry' grin. "Don't shoot much, do you? That's from the hall dresser, yeah? Emptied the magazine and chamber before you showed up."

Dark eyes narrow and he pulls the trigger, aiming down sights at the blonde, the hollow click from the firing pin and the lack of splattered soldier brains shows he told the truth. "Tch." Jim throws the gun aside, metal clattering on tile.

His soldier frowns, disapproval in sky blue eyes, hands reaching behind his back and untying his apron. "Gun safety, love." He says with exasperation.

"Who sent you?"

"Government work. Looks like you stuck your finger in the wrong pie." He's wiping down the counter, throwing the rag back into the sink before picking up the two plates and setting them on the island, places set for two. "You often decide to take on your assassins alone?"

It smelled really, really good. And he'd eaten horribly, stomach tied in knots and the pain in his wrist making his breakfast (toast, strawberry jam) sink into his stomach like a rock. And he did have a nice red that'd pair well with the meal. "Only when I'm bored." He's getting glasses and uncorking the bottle before he realizes it, and scowls at the 'ha, I win' look in those blue eyes.

The blonde moves towards him as he's pouring, soundless and smooth like a big cat. He's close enough Jim can smell the scent of his cologne, leather and gun oil, crisp aftershave, the faintest touch of the soldier's hip pressing against his own. His voice his low and smooth, almost a murmur, "Maybe you need someone to keep you from getting bored." The soldier's hand is resting on the marble counter, hips cocked and he lets his hand linger over Jim's when he picks up one of the wine glasses, the burning in his wrist soothed.

"And you're offering?" Ah, damn him. Okay, maybe a meal and a quick fuck before blondie loses his intestines. Jim picks up his own glass, absently swirling the red liquid around, turning to face his soldier. It closes the distance between them almost completely, he can feel the heat radiating between them. Okay, maybe a quick fuck _then_ a meal before the intestine-losing.

"I am between employers at the moment," he purrs, and blue eyes are definitely looking at his lips. He's a tease, always has been, and it's lovely to watch those pupils go wide at the way he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. "Apparently it'a frowned on to decline a job after accepting payment."

"Oh my. Don't know if I want someone with that kind of track record at my side, darling."

The blonde shows sharp canines with his smile, predatory and shark-like. "How about under you then?" The look of plain desire is easy to read on his soldier's face, and it sends a warm flare from his wrist to the pit of his gut.

"I think we can arrange something, ...?"

"Sebastian." If that smile gets any wider, Sebastian might split his face.

"Seb-ast-tian." He tastes each syllable on his tongue, enjoying the way the name rolls in his mouth. "To an evening that is not boring," Jim holds his glass up.

"To a _life_ that is not boring," Sebastian counters, holding his own glass, clinking it against Jim's. "Sláinte."

It's Jim's turn to give a shark smile. "Sláinte."


End file.
